The Pirates' Maid
by Fairiebutterfly
Summary: After nine years as Elizabeth's maid, circumstances force a proper young woman to sacrifice propriety and set sail with some rather unsavory characters. All criticism is more than welcome.
1. In which a proprietor berates a prisoner

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean—neither the story or any of its characters. If I did, I would be working on making a sequel, not writing fanfiction. I do, however, own Emily and the story that follows as my own creations. Why anyone might want to steal them, I don't know, but it would upset me. Please don't.

While writing disclamations and such, I'd like to express my heartfelt thanks to all those that review, and to all those that criticize particularly. Every time I find a review notice in my inbox, I get a wonderful thrill of happiness. Thank you for taking the time.

* * *

Emily stared out the mansion's second story window, distractedly arranging the flowers in their vase on the sill as she watched the tall young man make his way down the drive. Will had been up to see Miss Swann again. She sighed with longing, and straightened the starchy-white cloth cap that held dark curls back from her round face. It was always so itchy. She envied her mistress with her soft silks and linens shipped over from England. The warm Caribbean sunlight was broken by a salty breeze on her face as she opened the windows to air the large bedroom. That was the only nice thing about living in such a place, she thought. The sunshine, the ocean, and Will Turner. Otherwise, she'd take London any day.

Will had rounded the corner of the hedge, and Emily sighed and started straightening the rumpled bed sheets. She shouldn't complain; as a maid to the governor's only daughter, her place in life was quite comfortable, even if it couldn't compare to the bustle and glitter of England's most brilliant city, or to the pampered life of Miss Elizabeth. Skirts rustling, she sat on her lady's large bed and let her fertile imagination make her a grand lady, lying abed until noon amidst the rich wood and finery of the room. She stood and twirled about, her mind making her clean habit metamorphose into milky smooth fabric of some expensive persuasion.

"Why Will, what a pleasant surprise to find you here! I didn't think that you attended these kinds of balls, but –dance with you? I'd love to," she prattled to herself, before launching into what might be called a waltz if was less like a country dance. Smiling, she completely lost herself in this imaginary world.

A melodious voice broke through her daydream. "Emily? Did you notice if my rose cotton came up from the laundry yet? Emily?"

The maid whipped about, almost tripping over her own feet as she stumbled to arrange herself into an I-was-just-cleaning position. The governor's only child swept into the room, five feet and seven inches of sparkling, glossy perfection. Her chestnut hair was combed and curled; her face was all strawberries and cream. Emily felt the accustomed wave of indulgent bitterness. No wonder Will was in love with Miss Elizabeth. No wonder _everyone_ was in love with the girl. Some people simply were blessed with everything in life.

Elizabeth crossed the room to gaze out the window. "Well?" she inquired. Emily had forgotten that there had been a question.

"The––the rose cotton, milady? I washed it only yesterday; would you like me to bring it for you?"

"Please," came the reply. Emily curtsied, and bustled out of the room and down the stairs.

Charles was in the servants' quarter, charting out the schedule for the next day's work. The elderly servant sat straight-backed even as he leaned forward over the thick oak table that served as desk, dining area, and occasionally bed. He waved an imperious hand at Emily as she entered, telling her the unmistakable language of a steward that he had a task for her as soon as she had a free moment. Emily made a face as soon as the glint of his spectacles had returned to his quill and paper, and crossed the chill stone floor––it was always cold in this room, despite the heat and humidity outside––to the courtyard in which the laundry hung to dry, creating flapping shadows on the ground. Another difference between London and Port Royal, she supposed. In the Old Country, any whites hanging between the windows of tenements would soon gray with coal dust.

The damp banners of shifts and stockings swung gently in a pleasant breeze, rocking the cord tied between two towering magnolias. They were just beginning to bloom, like the white bird wings peeking between the dark and shiny leaves, only without the incessant chirping and fluttering that birds here were inclined to do. Emily pinched the fabrics––carefully with the silk––and pulled down the ones that weren't still wet. To her disgust, the skirt Elizabeth had asked for was still dripping, having been hung up inside of a dress by a careless washwoman. Well, that was what the governor got for hiring just anyone, wasn't it? It saved money, certainly, but the descendants of cobblers, Indians, and doubtlessly pirates that peopled these islands never had any idea of how to do things properly. With a frustrated sigh, Emily untangled the skirt and snapped it sharply to both shake out the wrinkles and vent her annoyance.

She was beginning to gather up the clean, dry clothes when the harsh sounds of raised voices reached her from the road that ran just outside the tidy hedge border of the courtyard. Frowning––wasn't it just like people to ruin a peaceful day with arguing?––she stood on tiptoes to see if she could get a glimpse of the noisy combatants, but to no avail. The six-foot tall line of shrubbery dwarfed her plump frame. Mulishly, she glanced around for another way to see what was happening. The twanging movement of the clothesline caught her eye, which then traveled to the old magnolia closest to her.

In a matter of seconds, the maidservant hiked up her gray skirts, kicked off her slippers, and hoisted herself up into the branches of the tree in a completely un-ladylike manner. With agility born of much illicit practice, scrambled up, hearing the voices grow louder. From a settled-in seat in the upper branches, she could see perfectly well.

Two men stood on the road that led from the town to the mansion, and the contrast between the two was almost humorous. The taller of the two was also the pinker, his round face flushed with anger and brows drawn together in frustration. His bulk made the other seem almost delicate, but a closer look made it clear that this was not the case. In what seemed blatant defiance of the large man's smooth, well-fed aura of domesticity, scars traced sun-burnt and wind-weathered skin, and visible even from a distance were the stringy muscles that coiled around skeletal arms as they pulled easily from the damp grip of the shouting man, who was doing his best to keep his aggravator from escaping.

From her perch, Emily recognized the fat man as Master Gerard, proprietor of the Pickled Boar. The tavern-owner's worries seemed to be useless; aside from breaking away from Gerard's hold, Scar-face seemed to have no intention of doing aught but lounge in place, arms crossed and a look of insolence and scorn on his face.

One pudgy hand was waving a fistful of coins under the hooked nose. "Three crowns you spent, wharf scum," he bellowed in a voice that was well-accustomed to bellowing across a noisy and crowded common room. "Ale, food, the room––I expect to be paid with the king's gold, not this, this––"

Scar-face glanced lazily down at the gold. "And ye think that I'm good enough a scapegoat to give to the guv'ner? I paid my due; it's fair bad practice to drag a man up to the noose just on suspicion." His voice was pitched lower than the other man's; Emily had to strain her ears to catch his words. He gestured to the worn leather and rags that clothed him. "Like I told ye, I'm just an honest sailor."

Gerard snorted. "Just like these are honest coins over the lead filling, eh?" Smoothing his own well-made shirtfront, he scowled. "You're the only ruffian I've seen in the past fortnight with the gall to pass off false coinage. And the captain––bless him–– knows just what to do with your ilk." He grabbed his prisoner by the arm again, pulling the strangely unresisting man up the lane to the elegant front door of the mansion, seeming unaware of the smaller man's obvious acquaintance with violence.

Leaning back in the tree, Emily made a face. It was just like that over-stuffed bartender to bother the governor with something like this, when it should properly be taken to a magistrate, a lower official. And speaking of proper...

She waited until the two were out of sight before clambering down from the branches, finding handholds and footholds easily despite the leaves and twigs that caught on her dress. Muttering to herself, she landed on the solid ground again and brushed off the debris. She gazed up at the magnolia with a bit of guilt; it wasn't at all decorous behavior to enjoy scrambling up and down trees.


	2. In which a corset makes some impressions

The town of Port Royal was at its busiest time. The morning was already underway; the hot sun of noon hadn't yet climbed to the sky overhead. With an empty basket balanced on her hip, Emily sidled down the edge of the path into the cluster of shops and stalls that was the market, carefully avoiding the mud that collected in wheel-ruts after the night's rain. Despite having been established for more than a century, Port Royal wasn't nearly as crowded as it should have been. People moved to other islands at the slightest hint of better prosperity, half of the youth ran off to sea at their earliest chance, and there was always sickness, pirates, and brawling to keep Emily from being jostled by too many bodies as she walked.

She stopped by Missus Weatherby's stand, a rather bright looking affair with its candy-striped umbrella shading the abundant, if scrawny piles of colorful vegetables and roots, fruits and melons. It was relatively clean, but the look of the vendor's stand was less of a draw to her regular customer than the vendor herself, a large, pecan-skinned woman with a wide smile of crooked teeth and a mouthful of ready gossip. The fact that it stood at the edge of the market nearest to the blacksmith was, of course, not even a factor.

"Looks as though Master Gerard's caught himself a fish," Emily commented lazily as she perused the produce, having already exchanged amiable greetings with Monique Weatherby. Leaning on the edge of the stacked wooden crates that made the stand, she glanced up to see the older woman nod knowingly.

"Aye, dat 'e did, but it's a stringy, tough little bit uh seafood dat evuh was. Hardly wuth showin' tuh the fishmongah, as it were." Monique let her hands rearrange the fruits as she spoke, masking gossip with a show of industry, as was her wont.

"I wonder what he's thinking, to harass the governor with that so directly? The fellow looked a bit nasty, but even taking him up before Norrington would make more sense, if he wanted to be vindictive," Emily speculated. "It doesn't seem like a way to win much favor, if that's what he's after."

"Or sum kind uh reward. Fo catchin' wot looks lak a hardened crim'nal."

Something in the vendor's tone warned Emily. "Looks like? Not 'is'?"

A snort. "Ah would've said 'is' if'n Ah hadn't saw the other fella, him dat was drunk dis very morn and braggin' tuh the walls how he'd passed off dem false coins, and 'scaped the blame. Figured himself right clevah, he did."

The maid pondered this tale, fitting it with the image of the compliant man being led up to the manor. It seemed right, after all, the man had protested his innocence, but at the same time something was amiss. Emily supposed she simply expected someone so scarred and weathered to have put up more of a fight, as he already carried marks of struggling against life. She shrugged. "Gerard might be in for some trouble then, if word reached him. What shall he do, if he learns this bit after turning in the innocent one?"

"Ah wouldn't call dat rascally fella innocent. Sea scum's all the same, Em'ly; they'll steal yuh blind if'n half the chance comes up."

Emily placed a few last potatoes in the basket before pulling out the bit of silver allotted to her for bargaining. "Just like you steal from your customers with such high prices, Missus Weatherby?" she teased, an eyebrow raised. "I've never seen so much charged for a bit of fruit."

Monique laughed, parrying: "Den you've neveh seen the rest of the market gel, or yuh'd be askin' tuh pay more fo such nice fruit."

Furious but good-natured bargaining ensued.

* * *

The peculiar incident soon faded from Emily's mind. After all, there was laundry to mend, furniture to be dusted, and beds to be made, and the application of justice wasn't one of the leading concerns of household servants. She did note, without any particular interest or consideration, the Governor's complains of certain valuables missing from the office at Fort Charles, but attributed the loss to his infamous absent-mindedness. And there were other distractions.  
  
Sunday afternoon arrived with a basket of excitement for the citizens of Port Royal, along with a painfully clear sky and an absence of the light breeze which had livened the last few days. The weather wasn't a deterrent, however: today was the promotion ceremony of Captain James Norrington, and therefore almost a festival day. Preparations and expectations were raised to a level that certainly exceeded that which would be found at a similar event in England. Wives arranged luncheons for afterwards, their husbands gathered friends for games of croquet, and everyone looked forward to the display of British discipline and civility. For the shopkeepers, craftsmen and plantation workers, it reminded them of their loyalties and reawakened pride in their home land, as well as providing a spectacle to relieve the repetition of daily labors.  
  
Emily found herself in a position to enjoy the ceremony from a somewhat more privileged viewpoint than that of the manor's other maids and servant. Governor Weatherby Swann had presented his daughter with a gift, a parcel that Charles had taken his old bones down to the port office to fetch from the post, and from which Emily had seen him unwrapping the coarse paper. Her anticipations of its contents were not disappointed. A half hour later, she was helping Estrella pull tight the cords of a cloth and bone corset around Miss Elizabeth.  
  
The governor hovered outside the small _salle d'essayage_, his voice drifting over the decorative wood-and-silk barrier in an answer to his daughter's question. "Does a father need an occasion necessary to dote upon his daughter?" The attending maid hid a smirk. He didn't, of course—the amount he spent on his beloved daughter well pushed the boundaries of its allotment on the household budget; even in a moderately successful plantation and trade colony, there were limits. Ordering goods from England, textiles and the like, was prohibitively expensive. Silks from the East India Company were almost less dear, and Emily even harbored a cynical thought about the likeliness of the dress's fashionableness. By the time it arrived in the west, the London socialites probably had deemed it so _démodée_ that the beggars were salvaging such dresses from refuse piles.  
  
All the same, the governor's tone was fairly transparent to the maid's experienced ear, and likely anyone else with two thoughts in their head. Of course there was a reason for the gift.  
  
"Although I did think you might wear it to the ceremony this afternoon," he continued, a pause barely noticeable. "Captain—or I should say, Commodore—Norrington's promotion ceremony."  
  
Emily nodded inwardly, pleased that she had been correct. It was fairly common knowledge, though unspoken, that the governor was hoping to marry his daughter to the upright, rather dashing captain. As a promising member of the Royal Navy and a pirate hunter of some renown, it wasn't too hard to recognize the governor's ambitions for the pair. And recognize Elizabeth did, as was evinced by her small moue of distaste. "I knew it."  
  
Her father gave up any pretense of indifference. "A fine gentleman, don't you think?"  
  
There was no answer. "He fancies you, you know," he added with a touch of fatherly pride in his voice.  
  
Tired of wrestling with the strings, and arms beginning to ache with the effort, Emily gave up with an exasperated sigh. Positioning a foot on the small of her lady's back, she pushed off and used the leverage to yank tight the ties before Elizabeth could do anything but gasp at the sudden constriction. "There," Emily murmured quietly, stepping back with a face reflecting nothing but placid gratification in a task well done. Only later would she giggle madly at the memory of the look of shock on Miss Elizabeth's face.  
  
As she and Estrella, the other apron-clad maid, began slipping the delicately made over-dress past their charge's shoulders, the governor was called to the door. There was a caller waiting in the hall, it seemed. As Governor Swann vanished through the doorway at the summons, Emily's heartbeat sped up in rebellion to common sense, and her fingers slipped at the buttons down the bodice with the thought of who the caller might be.  
  
The dress sword had been the topic of all Will's conversations for weeks now, and as a longtime friend Emily had almost heard more about this commission for Norrington than she ever cared to know. The trials of precisely balancing it, the techniques for folding the steel, endless notes on the captain's fencing techniques and how they would affect the shape of the sword, all poured into her sympathetic ear whenever they met together after church or for dinner.  
  
The blacksmith to whom Will was apprenticed, Master Brown, was a friend of Charles. It was a rather unlikely pairing; Emily had difficulty seeing what the stiff steward could possibly have in common with a drunkard, but according to the knowledgeable Missus Weatherby, Brown had been a master of his craft and a 'gud man' before his wife had died, and Will had confirmed it. Emily herself had no idea. She hadn't ever had a chance to meet Hannah before she passed away—she had arrived from England six months after the sickness had passed through the town. It hadn't been a bad one, as plagues went, but it had taken the eldest and the weakest, and it was said that Hannah had never been strong.  
  
In any case, Master Brown and his apprentice were cordially invited up to the servants' mess in the manor at least once a week, for a warm meal and more sober company. Otherwise, as Will confided, their meals were mainly bread with a great deal of ale to moisten it. Pity, then, and a wish to keep his old friend from drinking himself asleep every night of the week, spurred Charles to make the invitation. Emily couldn't say she minded any chance to see Will. She didn't even mind the times when Charles asked her to take a basket of foodstuffs down to the smithy—not that anyone in the governor's service could ever think of disobeying even a mild request from the authoritative servant. As a result, she had an abundance of opportunities to hear about this sword, and had even—she remembered the incident with a warm glow of pride—been consulted as an authority on fashion and matters aesthetic for the design and amount of gold filigree to be laid into the handle.  
  
Finished with dressing Elizabeth, Emily tugged the lower hem of the new dress straight while Estrella pinned up the girl's curls. Without so much as a nod to the two maids, Elizabeth swept out to the stairs. Emily followed, hastily smoothing and straightening her own clothes, a bit crumpled from kneeling on the floor. She remained on the balcony as her mistress descended, eyes immediately drawn to the sheen of light reflecting from an elegant sword being handed to the governor, and the handsome young man holding it. The governor's words floated faintly up to where she stood.  
  
"A fine piece of work," he praised heartily. "Do pass my compliments on to your master?"  
  
Emily winced at both her master's lack of tact and his unawareness as her friend's face fell. He was so proud of that weapon, and he did like being recognized for his skill. From what she could see, he was completing most of the orders that came into the shop now, from plows to belaying pins. It wasn't much talked around though, out of respect for Master Brown, and apparently Governor Swann wasn't within the circle of townsfolk that were more in touch with such things.  
  
But Will's disappointment vanished—or was at least put aside—as the two men glanced up to see Elizabeth poised on the stairs. Their glances turned to stares, the governor's of approval, Will's of dumbstruck awe. Her eyes only on Will, Elizabeth posed a moment more before gliding down the rest of the stairs, a smile on her face. None of them noticed the maid watching their tableau, or heard the sigh she heaved in resigned observation of the way the lady and the blacksmith looked at each other.  
  
She turned and slipped through a disguised door in the wall, taking the back stairs down to the servants' quarters. She needed to change into her good dress yet; while the governor and his daughter might take the carriage down to the morning church service, the maids and lower servants were walking, and still had the ceremony to attend afterwards.


	3. In which a corset causes some problems

By the time they filed into the church and slipped into their proper pews, the servants were grateful for the chance to sit after their long walk, even if it was to sit through a unintelligible two hour Latin service. The Holy Church of Our Lady Royal was located on the side of the town nearest the fort, and farthest from the manor. There was probably something symbolic in that, Emily thought as she pulled out her prayer book, but whatever it was escaped her.

From the little English sprinkled in the droning voice of the priest, the morning's sermon was to do with duty, order, and discipline. Guiltily reflecting on her tree-climbing forays, spates of idleness, and a poorly dusted higher shelf in the drawing room—but was the last her fault? She had hardly been able to reach it!—she schooled herself into the proper penitent frame of mind. She would be good, she would be hard-working, she would stop being jealous of Elizabeth, she would be the kind of person with whom her mother would be happy. Not that she'd likely ever return to her mother, but the principle was the same.

Despite her best intentions, after the first hour had dragged past, her thoughts slipped out of their pious channels. Automatically mouthing the responses when it was required, Emily's attention was caught in the dust motes that swirled in the draft from the doors that had been left open through a sense of self-preservation. No one in the church wished their immortal souls to arrive prematurely before the heavenly gates simply because they had roasted within a Caribbean church/oven.

Light stained from the emerald and scarlet dyed windows glittered in the dusty air. The sacred and ephemeral beauty of the scene was not lost on her, but her perverse practicality of mind wondered if the place was ever decently cleaned. Was that a duty of the priests, to wipe down the dark wooden benches with a cloth, and to rub them with lemon polish? Or did slaves do it? She imagined it must be the latter, her mind's eye shying from the vision of the dignified old men hiking their robes up to their knees and scrubbing the floor of the church. She swallowed a giggle. It would be extremely inappropriate to laugh in church, although it wouldn't be the only sound from the ideally silent and attentive congregation. But no, there was the ever present wave-like noise of fidgeting and rustling fabrics, punctuated with sneezes and coughs (no doubt caused by that improperly cleaned holy dust) like the sound of the ocean was punctuated by driftwood slapping against the dock. Caught up in her imaginings, Emily could hear the sea wind as well, brushing through with the breathing of so many people, and with the waving of paper fans to ward off the insidious heat. One fan in particular was almost humming with movement, further in the front of the church. Curious, Emily leaned forward to see, disguising the movement by dropping her handkerchief and reaching for it. The fan belonged to Elizabeth, who seemed to be suffering some discomfort, no doubt from her newly acquired corset. Emily felt a brief flash of sympathy for the girl, who still would have to endure the ordeal of an hour standing in the sun, watching the garrison at Fort Charles go through their well-practiced formations and displays in honor of James Norrington.

Handkerchief now conveniently in hand, Emily closed her eyes and wiped perspiration from her face. She found it difficult to re-open them. While the pew was certainly designed to be as uncomfortable as possible, the heat allied with the dull noise against any fortification discomfort might offer against dozing. And she, unlike others, didn't have a corset to crush her into wakefulness.

It seemed only a minute had passed before Emily was greeted with a shove into her side. "Emily!" The word was hissed into her ear.

"—Amen." Opening her eyes, Emily gathered that the response wasn't quite on time. Estrella shook her arm again, as Emily looked around in puzzlement at the people already standing and leaving the church.

With an irritated look, the other maid whispered, "Would you mind getting up so we could all do the same? You're rather blocking the way." Emily hastily stood so that the others could slide out of the pew and walk past, still trying to clear her head and vision. In the haze of confusion that afflicts those that have only just awakened, she was blurrily wondering what had happened to the rest of the sermon when someone—or several someones; it seemed like everyone was trying to leave the stuffy hall at once—bumped her aside, nearly knocking her down in her bemused state. Hands on her shoulders steadied her.

"Falling asleep in church isn't exactly polite, Emily," Will told her, setting her straight as she blinked. His beautiful face—_don't blush, please don't—_was serious above the slightest twitch of his lips. If he thought her antics funny, he would never show it.

Ducking her head, she muttered, "Please. It's not as if it's a _habit _or anything." He sighed, waiting. "I'll apologize. And probably be assigned a hundred Hail Mary's for the courtesy, and it'll be your fault."

He grinned briefly. "I don't believe I was the one who fell asleep."

"But you would make me apologize, and throw myself upon the mercy of the minister, wouldn't you?"

He raised an eyebrow as they walked to the door. "You wouldn't do the right thing otherwise?"

Expelling her breath in dramatic defeat, Emily reluctantly admitted, "You're right. I should." Darting a quick glance at him, she added jealously, "_Elizabeth_ would apologize without being told." After a pause, she said, "Then again, she probably would never fall asleep in the first place." She blinked sunspots from her eyes as they stepped out of the gloomy church.

Will didn't notice her grumbling as his own eyes took on a dreamy cast. "No, I don't think I've ever seen her sleep in church. She's too p—"

_Polite_, he might have said. Or maybe _perfect_, if this was one of his more infatuated days. Emily didn't find out, as they were interrupted by the lady herself, like two of the heathen voodoo priests summoning a spirit by name.

"Emily? I wanted to ask—oh. Hello, Will."

"Miss Swann."

There was a moment of silence as they smiled at each other. Seeing Elizabeth again in her new dress, Emily decided the word would have more likely been _perfect_. Clearing her throat and subtlety positioning herself more between the two, she curtsied in her most moment-breaking manner. "You needed something, miss?"

Elizabeth looked awkwardly at Will. "Would you mind excusing us a moment?" she asked apologetically. Still having some difficulty finding words, he nodded and stepped off. It wasn't long before a few of his acquaintances swept him into the stream of people heading to the fort. Elizabeth gave him only one second glance before turning to Emily.

"It's this thrice-cursed corset! I can hardly breathe, let alone fan myself. And it's so hot today, and this ridiculous contraption makes it worse--" Her voice was low and fierce, her expression beseeching. Emily understood.

"You'd like me to—to attend you? At the ceremony?" She tried not to let her face fall visibly. It was Sunday, the Sabbath, a rest day. She was, technically, free after the church service.

Emily looked again at Elizabeth. She was breathing rather more heavily than was normal for the elegant young woman, and there was a light patina of perspiration on her face, not quite controlled by the dusting of make-up powder that had been applied that morning. Sitting in the church must have been a hellish ordeal.

"You don't need to," Elizabeth said quickly. "It's Sunday, after all, and I'm sure you'd rather stand with your friends instead."

Emily felt an unfortunately timed wave of pity. It wasn't Elizabeth's fault that her father had made her wear the corset, or that she looked fabulous in it, or that Will... She made herself stop that line of though before she changed her mind. "Of course I will, miss. It's terribly hot today, isn't it?"

Elizabeth's look of relief made Emily feel terrible for even considering refusing. "Thank you, Emily. You'll ride in the carriage of course." What an honor.

"Elizabeth, we're leaving," came the governor's voice from the carriage standing on the gravel drive leading from the church. His head appeared in the window, motioning them over. Emily followed her mistress at the proper distance for a servant, climbing into the carriage after Elizabeth only with a certain degree of healthy hesitation—it looked much less sturdy up close.

The inside of the coach was now rather crowded, and neither the governor nor Charles—granted a position in the carriage due to his venerable age and respected position—looked particularly pleased with the newest addition. They weren't about to say anything, however; Elizabeth wasn't to be denied the comforts of a maid if that was what she desired. Emily, for her part, didn't have the stomach to notice their disapproving glances. The coach _bounced_, and it seemed as though at least two of the four wheels left the safety of the road with every rut and rock they hit. She found herself clutching the handle on the door with both hands, loosening the whitened knuckles only to take the extra fan Elizabeth had retrieved from under the seat cushions. The governor's daughter was suppressing a smile as Emily dropped the proffered fan in her lap with the speed of a frightened hare, hands then returning to their death grip on the door.

The trip seemed interminable, passing through Emily's perceptions with the unbearable slowness of nauseated nervousness. Charles began a quiet conversation with Governor Swann about the recent tariff England had placed on spices, but Emily had trouble following their low voices. Elizabeth was neatly folding a handkerchief. None of them seemed to notice how near their mode of transportation was to collapsing. When the dratted thing finally jolted to an unsteady halt, relief washed over Emily so intensely, she could barely get up until Elizabeth prodded her. She then realized that her eyes were screwed tightly shut.

Outside the carriage, she still felt woozy. The coachman had inadvertently timed their arrival to coincide with that of all the sensible pedestrian attendees, and so she wasn't allowed to rest long enough to dispel the dizziness without risking being separated from the governor's party. They had already begun to walk off past the orderly, red and white garbed soldiers, and Emily was forced to swallow her disorientation and follow.

Unfortunately, someone was hastening in the same direction, with a bit more rapidity than Emily was able to muster at the moment. The personage was either nearsighted, preoccupied, or jostled by another member of the arriving crowd, but the result was a collision with the hapless maid. She stumbled, tripped, and skidded with less poise than normal, but somehow managed to avoid taking a disgraceful seat on the stones of the fort. Before she could congratulate herself on the save, she took stock and found her hand alarmingly empty. The fan—! Pulse quickening, she darted a glance at the various pairs of feet marching on to the courtyard. There, not too far away. Without thinking about it, she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to it, reached, and... grasped empty space. A wayward foot had kicked it another few yards away. Biting down a curse, she scrambled after it, only to suffer the same offense. She growled, and crawled a few feet further—and it was gone. A hand did present itself to her, though, and she took it to pull herself up after realizing that its fellow held her sought-after paper fan. That was the last good news she found.

"My apologies for, ah, upsetting you, miss." The voice was ominously cultured and well-pronounced, lacking the rough edges and slurred vowels of the working class. "I'm afraid I was in something of a hurry."

"Captain—Commodore—Cap—sir." She stuttered over the proper title. Emily could feel the blood rising in her face, was sure it was flaming red by now.

"Yes, it is awkward, isn't it? Captain will do for now." His thin lips seemed to be smiling, unless it was a trick played on her by the mind of a one dying of embarrassment. "You may be grateful to know that the stones were scrubbed down earlier for the ceremony." In crisp dress uniform and with perfectly straight military posture, he was a construct of lines and decorum. His sharp gaze seemed to examine her to find every rumpled inch of her dress, every wayward curl of hair, every misplaced, unseemly thought or action she had every committed. It was not, however, entirely unkind.

She swallowed. "Captain Norrington." There didn't seem to be much else to say, but she weakly tried to respond with failing wits. "I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, I didn't see—"

"Entirely my fault, I'm sure. I had wished to speak with Miss Swann before the ceremony, but I'm afraid it will have to wait." He _was_ smiling, a little self-deprecatingly. "Even if I hadn't run into you so... violently, there wouldn't have been time. I'll just have to wait. Take care of yourself, miss—?"

"Emily, sir. I'm maid to Miss Eliz—Miss Swann." The replied came automatically, if unevenly.

He re-examined her, no doubt finding her place as one of the background figures in whatever memory he might have of Elizabeth. "I see. Well then, take care of yourself here on, Miss Emily."

He returned the fan to Emily, wrapping her nerveless fingers about its length. Duty done, he turned to leave.

A pair of synapses connected in her brain, and triggered her mouth. "Wait!"

He turned back, an eyebrow raised.

"What were you going to speak with her about?" It _would_ be her gossip instinct that was revived first.

A look of surprise interrupted the normal composure of his face. Her forwardness had somehow startled him into answering. "I meant to propose." A thought occurred to him, and dry humor tinged his next words. "But as eager as you seem to serve her, as I may judge from your enthusiastic retrieval of the trinket, I really must ask you not to relay the message to her. I'd rather make the attempt myself."

He left her standing with her mouth slightly agape, trying to put herself back together from the mental predations of jolting carriages and the humiliating encounter with one of her social betters. It was a moment before she had collected herself sufficiently to find and join Elizabeth, a moment before she would arrive at the governor's party only seconds before the ceremony began, and she could begin the wearisome work of fanning her corset-beset mistress.

In that moment, she wondered how much more stumbling she would do that day, and if she would ever manage to control herself long enough to be a proper British maid.


	4. In which Emily is tempted by vegetables

Utmost apologies for this piece taking so very long: I'm afraid that I was distracted by both school and other projects, but mostly school. I was also was suffering from a bit of block with the plot. This isn't an entire chapter, by any means, but I will finish it promptly.

* * *

The remainder of the day passed with all the excitement and energy of a thirty-year old draft horse with gout. Fanning Elizabeth for what seemed like ages took a great deal of the diversion and interest from the fort guard's display. Far from her usual mild appreciation of the trim red and white uniforms and precisely executed maneuvers, Emily was infinitely relived when the ceremony finally ended with the presentations of Will's—no, the Commodore's—blade. She retreated tactfully when the newly appointed leader of the fleet approached her mistress, dutifully acknowledging the slight greeting tilt of Norrington's head in her own direction with a decorous curtsey.

Heaving a small sigh, she watched them walk away together in a slow promenade, and turned to find herself a patch of shade. The noon sun had slowly retreated from directly overhead during the course of the ceremony, and leaning against the stones of the fort wall, she could escape the worst of the Caribbean heat for a few minutes. From her vantage point, her eyes sought out Will's upright, broad-shouldered form almost completely out of habit. Try as she might, she couldn't see him among the few stragglers meandering around the courtyard, enjoying the view of the ocean as though they didn't get to see it every day. Emily liked the ocean as much as the next person—it was blue, sparkled, and blissfully cooler than the air—but it was just water, after all.

Resting her head against the rough sandstone of the wall, she reviewed her options for the rest of her day, and passed over visiting the smithy—Will might have gone to the tavern instead, and wouldn't that look silly—as well as daydreaming and watching clouds in the manor garden. The latter option was discarded as well, taking into due consideration both the likelihood of being drawn into some kind of extra chore by Charles, and her current morose mood, which wouldn't be much improved by a bout of brooding. With the idea of being cheered up with some lively gossip in mind, Emily decided that paying a visit to Monique would be the most pleasant way to spend the afternoon.

As events unraveled, the call turned out to be nearly the exact opposite. Monique's son was ill, and she asked the visiting Emily to help set up the stand and prepare the fresher cartload of vegetables for the market the next day, while she nursed the young boy. It was a dusty and uncomfortable task. Emily spent the afternoon clearing stems of withered greenery, washing dirt from the wares to make them more appealing, and arranging them in such a manner that they would be both well-displayed and safe from being squashed unpleasantly by their heavier companions.

By the day's end, she was quite miserable. Her once crisp dress was wrinkled and chafing, her hair was escaping its covering in sweaty straggles, and her back ached from lifting the weighty gourds, which had the double offense of being dreadfully opposed to any well-bred British palate, and could only really be purchased and supposedly enjoyed by the native people. The sunlight was beginning to fail—lamps were appearing here and there in the windows across the street from where she labored, mirroring the speckle of stars already to be seen in the darkening east—when Emily heard the last voice she wanted to hear under these conditions.

"Emily!" It was Will. Had she not been a properly raised young lady, she might have used one of the choice words more commonly heard at the docks.

She straightened quickly from where she was pulling a canvas over the vegetables to protect them from the night's dew, simultaneously trying to tuck her wayward hair behind her ears, if not entirely under her cap, and straighten her apron. Will was pacing back and forth, oblivious to her disheveled state and snapping with restless energy. She fought the urge to scowl.

"You've been here all afternoon, have you? Then you didn't hear—you wouldn't have heard—some ruffian took hold of Miss Swann, with the idea of using her as a hostage!" He paused in front of her, his distress at the idea evident in every line of his body. Emily sighed quietly over him. He had no idea of how transparent he was, with everything.

He threw her a reproachful look, taking offense at her lack of reaction. She quickly rallied her thoughts, bedraggled as they were after her trying day. "But she escaped, didn't she? Or I imagine Master Swann would have the entire town up in arms, not to mention every man at the disposal of Capt—sorry, Commodore Norrington and his navy."

"She did; well, he escaped, to be more accurate. He must have known that he had no chance, between Norrington and her father—they were both there—and he had some mad idea of hiding out in the smithy from them, and breaking his manacles there—it took the better half of an hour to calm down Betsy, poor creature." He had returned to pacing, seemingly mollified by her interest, although at intervals he would glance at her accusingly, as if it was her duty to protect her mistress.

Emily put the back of her hand to her forehead, trying to follow his spiel, lost somewhere between his mentions of manacles and Betsy, Master Brown's mule, an animal that the neighbors speculated was nearly as old as the smith himself. She made an effort, "And he was caught there?"

"Yes! And locked in the fort's prison, good riddance." He cast his eyes down, self-effacingly. "I helped, a bit. He got a hold of one of the blades…"

Summoning a look of admiration, Emily asked admiringly, "And you fought him? Oh, how thrilling Will!"

He nodded dismissively. "And then the Commodore arrived to take him away." For the first time, he seemed to actually look at her, and the result was disapproval. "Working on a Sunday?"

"Oh, this, it's just—just that Monique's youngest, Henri, he has the fever, and she's been so busy with him for the last few days, and she needed these ready for tomorrow." She tried not to wilt under his questioning look. "It's helping a neighbor, not working for a wage. It can't be that terrible."

Will's lips twitched, and his eyebrows went up. "You _look_ terrible."

She stared at him, torn between wanting to keep him smiling at her, even if it was teasing, if only because he looked so good, and the urge to spit some uncouth words and throw one of the yellow, overripe gourds at his head, watch it splatter and leave him dripping with seeds and juice, and set _that_ picture against him and no doubt his memories of Elizabeth looking so perfect and clean in her lovely new _corset_, and then see who looked terrible.

She folded grimy hands with chipped nails in front of her, demurely. "Why, thank you." Emily tried not to melt at his smile, and was rewarded by his offer to walk her up to the manor.

Of course, he only wanted the chance to see, and perhaps talk with Elizabeth, but she could dream.


End file.
